A Flame In The Ice
by Adamusa
Summary: Elros Aldamil, battlemage in service to the Imperial Legion, arrives in Skyrim by way of a shipwreck. He must make his way to Solitude and assume his duties, whatever they may be.


**DualKatanas: Why am I not surprised that you're the first and only person to review this so far? Thanks for the feedback anyway, most of your points are good ones.**

**The reason Elros doesn't hit Do'tasarr with a lightning bolt is because the Khajiit is still able to fight; the other two were severely wounded and would have died regardless, so he hastened their end. A mercy killing, if you will.**

**His amnesia's gone, although I realise that wasn't made very clear to begin with. It was very much a temporary loss of memory caused by the stress of being shipwrecked.**

**Finally, the magic: I use the Requiem mod which increases magicka costs exponentially if you're casting in heavy armour, similarly to D&D. Perks can be taken to reduce that of course, but Elros finds it easier to use light armour since it allows him to keep his agility.**

* * *

**Chapter One: Blood In The Water**

Dark, icy water lapped at his face. The creaking of the wood around him was deafening as a howling gale battered the cracked and splintered vessel. He woke with a start and struggled to his feet to escape the chilling grasp of the Sea of Ghosts. As he stood, a wave of dizziness swept over him and he staggered to the side. Subconsciously, his hand shot out to steady himself and hit a wooden surface. The survivor stood there for a moment as he regained his breath, then drew himself up and studied his surroundings. As he took in the dank aura of the room, his memory cleared somewhat and he recalled what had happened.

The ship he had booked passage on was only a small one; barely even seaworthy. Yet it was fast, or so the captain claimed. He remembered that the ship had run afoul of a great storm just off the coast of Skyrim, only a day's travel from Solitude's harbour. As he cursed his luck, a glimmer of light in the corner of the room caught his attention. He walked over the precarious deck and stooped to examine the item. A sword belt, with a longsword halfway out of the scabbard. Next to it sat a leather backpack which looked almost full. He studied them for a moment before grabbing the swordbelt and girding it around his waist. The backpack took longer to examine. As he looked inside, he found several seemingly insignificant pieces of jewelry, including a ring which looked oddly familiar to him. He plucked it from the pack and stared at it for a moment before sliding it onto his finger. The moment it was on, a rush of energy surged through him and more of his memory came to him. He was Elros Aldamil, Altmeri spellsword in the service of the Imperial Legion. The ring was an heirloom of his family. Indeed, it was the only thing that made him such a powerful caster as it almost doubled his already considerable reserve of magicka. He stared at the ring for a moment with piercing golden eyes, then hoisted the pack onto his back. His tightly-fitted leather armour was intact, thankfully. As he laid his hand on his sword, another flash of memory came to him. He unsheathed the sword slightly and checked the metal.

"Steel," he muttered. "Blast it, where's the other one?" The elf pushed his dark brown hair out of his face and glanced around at the room. It seemed he was in his cabin on the ship, the name of which escaped him. The name wasn't important anyway; at this point all he wanted to do was to find his second blade and get outside into the air. Luckily, the stairs leading upwards were unblocked. Seeing no sign of his silver blade anywhere, he walked cautiously over towards them; every worn timber creaking alarmingly. Elros peered up the stairs to see the velvet night sky above; the fey-lights danced in the heavens. He pulled himself slowly up the stairs, taking care not to place too much weight on the battered wood. As he emerged into the cold night air, a gust of icy wind caressed his face, blowing his dark, matted hair across his vision. He pushed it out of his eyes and took in the scene before him. It was dark, but the lights spinning across the sky gave him enough light to see by. The ship was a wreck, that much was clear. It had been dashed on the rocks near to the coast; easy enough for him to reach the shore then, he supposed. The battlemage muttered a swift spell under his breath and a small ball of light sprang into existence above his head.

"Better," he mumbled to nobody in particular. As he took a different view of the scene before him, his eyes widened in shock. Several bodies were strewn over the ship in various states. Some appeared to be merely sleeping, yet others were riddled with horrific wounds. He cautiously made his way over to one of the dead men and knelt beside him. The man stared blankly up at the sky with glassy eyes. A great gash had split his chest open from the right shoulder all the way down to his navel. It was a powerful sword blow, that much he could tell. He frowned. Storms wouldn't cause blade wounds; the man must have survived the wreck and been killed afterwards. Suddenly on guard, he swept his longsword from its scabbard and looked around warily. It seemed safe, but one could never be sure. He cast a quick spell to detect any living beings in the area. A few fish swam about near the boat, but other than that he couldn't find anything.

"Strange," he muttered. "Bandits would have looted the whole ship, not just killed the crew and made off." He glanced around again before making his way over to the side of the ship and staring towards the shoreline. It was mostly unbroken ice between the ship and the coast; easy enough for him to make his way over there. He spotted a small fire burning on the shore, surrounded by three dark figures and an equal number of tents. Scavengers or bandits, he supposed. Elros silently dropped from the ship and rolled into a crouch as he landed on the ice. Whoever was in those tents obviously hadn't noticed; probably drunk off the cargo of wines the ship was carrying. He extinguished the orb of light and stealthily moved forwards, his leather armour making his movement much easier. Unlike some battlemages, he preferred lighter armour; it made his spellcasting easier since the flow of magic was not restricted by the plates of metal. Not to mention that not getting hit was much more desirable than letting blows bounce off. As he drew closer to the crackling fire, the outlines of the people around it came into tangible focus.

Two Nords and a Khajiit lounged around the fire, with their weapons beside them. That alone showed that they had experience. Elros sat back on his haunches and stared towards the group. He spied a small pile of bottles near the fire; the three had definitely looted the wine from the ship. As he continued to examine them, it became readily apparent that the two Nords were stone drunk. The pair lolled about, laughing uproariously. The Khajiit on the other hand looked completely at ease, his pointed ears twitching as the Nords maudlin laughter boomed out across the ice.

_That poses a problem_, he mused. There was no other way on to the mainland except for swimming the chilling waters; he didn't fancy catching frostbite. The only way was to go through the bandits. The Nords would be easy to kill, but the Khajiit would prove problematic. They were known as viciously fast fighters and the scimitar laying across the cat's lap spoke volumes of that fact, as did the four throwing daggers strapped to various places across the bandit's chest.

Elros scratched his pointed chin in thought. A frost spell would be the most appropriate, considering the location, but it was obvious that the Nords had spilt a fair bit of wine over themselves as well. He knew the vintage; it was a common sight in the Summerset Isles, being a favourite of the local elven populace. He also knew that the wine had an extremely high alcohol content, which made it very flammable. A smile touched his lips as an idea sprang into his head. He concentrated for a moment to gather the words of the spell and to make sure he said it right. He began the chant in almost a whisper. As the spell carried on, a gust of wind swept over the coast. The magically summoned air whistled over the small camp and touched the fire. The flames leapt up and blew towards the Nords, who were completely caught off guard. Firey tongues licked the spilled wine and set it alight instantly. The pair screamed as their clothing caught fire and began rolling about, frantically beating at the flames. Instantly, the Khajiit sprang to his feet and hissed angrily before grabbing a bucket of water that lay near one of the tents. The Nords were extinguished as the cat flung the icy contents over them, however the damage was already done; the pair were in too much agony to even speak, let alone stand up.

The lithe elf wasted no time; he bounded up from his hiding spot and finished the two Nords off with a shouted spell. Bolts of crackling lightning shot from his fingertips and struck the bandits. They spasmed and died, their brains unable to handle the surge of power running through them. The Khajiit screeched at the demise of his comrades and threw himself at Elros, his scimitar scribing a gleaming arc through the air as the light from the fire reflected off it. The battlemage ripped his sword from the scabbard and parried the blow before striking back with a stab at the cat's sternum. The Khajiit knocked the attack aside and swung again, slashing for his legs. Elros dodged the blow and kept his distance; the cat was no stranger to the art of the duel. The pair circled each other for a few minutes before the he suddenly spoke.

"This one would know your name before your death, elf," purred the golden-furred Khajiit, his eyes sizing up his opponent as the two faced off. Elros locked gazes with the cat before he replied.

"I am Elros Aldamil, Imperial Battlemage. I happened to be on that ship you looted," he answered, never taking his eyes off his enemy. The cat made a growling noise that Elros knew to be appreciation.

"This one is called Do'tasarr. The men you killed were good warriors, they deserved to die in battle," he hissed, whipping his scimitar towards Elros's head. The elf ducked before countering with a vicious uppercut that Do'tasarr only just parried. Wasting no time on words, Elros flung himself into his assault on the Khajiit. The night rang with the clashing and ringing of steel striking steel. The two fought back and forth across the ice, neither combatant managing to gain the upper hand. Before long, first blood was drawn. Elros caught the cat on his backswing and scored a thin slash across his chest. A minor wound, but it would slow him down, if only slightly. Do'tasarr hissed in pain and redoubled his attack, pushing Elros back towards the camp. As they reached it, a small rock caught his foot and he staggered for a split second. The opening was enough to allow the Khajiit the opportunity of a wounding hit. He took it without hesitation and his scimitar cut into the elf's arm. With a gasp of pain, he mouthed a spell as he dodged backwards, away from his foe. The blue glow lit his face and the would healed itself, drawing another gasp from Elros as his flesh knit back together. The two began to circle each other again, wary this time.

With a howl of frustration, Do'tasarr hurled himself at Elros again. The end came quickly. The Aldmeri battlemage flicked the Khajiit's scimitar aside then drew back and plunged his sword through the cat's chest. His eyes shot wide open in shock as the cold sword burst from his back, then rolled down to peer at the steel blade protruding from his lungs.

"May you rest in Aetherius, noble warrior," Elros murmured, acknowledging his enemy's prowess. With a final, defeated gasp, Do'tasarr slipped back off the sword and toppled into the water, vanishing from sight as the mighty sea swallowed him up. Elros stood there panting for a moment before saluting his fallen foe. He wiped his sword off on the body of one of the Nords, then began rooting through the campsite in search of his silver blade.

Ten minutes later, he found it. Buried at the bottom of a chest of valuables that must have come from the dead crew lay his second sword. It was a beautifully crafted katana, built specifically for him and at this point, over two hundred years old. That it was precious to him was obvious, but it served a secondary purpose as well. It was anathema to undead, causing their skin to blister and crack by sheer proximity to it. Any zombie or skeleton struck by this blade never returned to unlife again.

As he touched the handle of the weapon, a final flash of memory struck him. His tasking here was as an Imperial battlemage, yes, but he had a secondary purpose. The council had heard news of a band of vampire hunters named the Dawnguard and had sent word to the Legion to investigate. After a few inquiries it turned out that there was indeed a militia forming to combat the undead menace and so the Legion had decided to assist by sending Elros. However they hadn't seen fit to furnish him with any information about the Dawnguard's location, so that would have to wait. He glanced up at the stars overhead. Judging by their position, he was two days overdue to arrive in Solitude. He stuck his katana through his swordbelt and examined the landscape. It was winter and this far north, the chill of night would be lethal. His warming spell, which had activated as soon as he'd stepped outside, would keep him warm for a time but he couldn't afford to maintain it during a fight.

Elros came to his decision and began to pack up one of the tents. A bedroll lay inside, so he folded that up and stowed it in his backpack. It took him ten minutes to disassemble the tent and eventually the component parts were safely tucked away in his pack, with the thick canvas hanging from the bottom of it. He noticed a small barrel of dried meat near the fire and investigated. The meat seemed to be venison; good provisions for a journey. He dug what little remained out of the barrel and folded it in a scrap of cloth. Water was no issue; he could improvise a solution to that with magic, but a waterskin was necessary. Noting that the dead Nords both had waterskins on them, he plucked them off the corpses and tied them to his belt.

"Time to go," he said to the empty coast. Orienting himself by the stars, he thought for a moment, then set off up the coastline. Solitude and the Imperial Legion awaited him.

* * *

**A/N: This is a fairly short chapter, but I thought it best to keep it short as it made for a decent introduction to the setting. If you read it, please leave a review and tell me what you think. If you loved it and want to have my babies, leave a review (and your phone number). If you hated it, feel free to spit vitriol at me and leave a review. If you were indifferent, leave a review.**

**TL;DR, leave a review.**


End file.
